


Hot Potato

by Duck_Life



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mission Fic, Pre-Relationship, Stakeout, Xavier's Security Enforcers (XSE), it's my sleepover and i get to pick the pseudoscience nonsense logic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Randall and Bishop's X.S.E. mission gets risky when Bishop tries to absorb an explosion.





	Hot Potato

Bishop’s cut the ignition on the car already. They don't want to alert their perp, and there’s no point in wasting gas. He entertains himself by watching the methodical way that Randall is preparing the cooked potato he brought along. 

Bishop’s partner has both halves balanced on the dashboard so he has his hands free to rip open a packet of powdered milk and sprinkle it on top. 

“That is disgusting,” Bishop comments, making a face.

Randall just shrugs and takes a bite. “Ol’ Harmony Base recipe,” he says with his mouth full, somehow managing to make the gross gesture seem charming. “Just like Mom used t’make.” 

“I think I’ll send out a list of approved stakeout sustenance,” Bishop brainstorms. “Protein bars. Cans of water. That’s it.”

“Man, you’re no fun,” Randall says. “Besides, if you find my favorite snack so ‘disgusting,’ I don’t know why you didn’t ask Malcolm to cover this stakeout with you.”

There’s a reason. They both know it. They’re both not saying it. “Malcolm… was busy.”

“I just bet he was.” Randall chews in silence while Bishop tries to distract himself by picking at a hangnail. They keep doing this, finding reasons to be alone together and then, once they’ve accomplished that, chickening out. 

Or maybe that’s just him. Randall’s never been much for chickening out. 

“How is your mom?” Bishop asks. 

“Oh, you know, same as always,” Randall says. “She wants you and Shard to come over for dinner one of these nights. Or, hm, every night.”

“She likes Shard more than she likes me.”

“She likes your sister more than she likes _ me _, Lucas,” Randall points out. And then he fidgets with the collar of his shirt. “Stuffy in here. As the goddess Ororo once said, I could use some fresh air.” He hits the button on his right and the vehicle’s window slides down. 

“What are you doing?” Bishop hisses. “We’re undercover.” And he leans across Randall’s lap to hit the button again, returning the window to a closed position. As he draws back, he takes note of how close he is to Randall, how he can feel the other man’s chest rise and fall as he breathes. 

Bishop unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, about to say something and ruin the moment like he always does, but Randall beats him to the punch. “He’s here.”

“What?”

“Our guy,” Randall says, jerking his chin toward the window. Bishop follows his gaze and spots the courier they’re after, a man with a buzzcut carrying a bulky silver suitcase. “What say you, Fearless Leader? Sit and watch, or go after him?” 

Bishop stares at the man rushing toward the warehouse. Their intel didn’t happen to mention what exactly The Goods are, but Bishop knows this guy is transporting something dangerous. Something that might end up costing good people their lives. 

“We go after him,” Bishop says, putting a hand on his blaster. 

Randall and Bishop move like smoke around the back of the car, heading for the warehouse the man disappeared into. “Hey,” Randall whispers suddenly, “if I die—”

“Can it,” Bishop says. He doesn’t need the distraction. And he knows the line between “facing reality” and “unnecessary doom-and-gloom.” This is two against one, and they have plenty of training. They know each other’s movements like dancers or birds of prey. Randall’s not in any danger of getting struck down, not today. 

“If I die,” Randall goes on, “you need to promise to go have dinner with my mom.” 

Bishop lets out a startled laugh, soft and choked, and then he shifts back into mission mode. “Would you focus?”

“I can’t focus thinking about that sweet lady making a bowl of spicy oat mash for you and then you’re not there to eat it.” 

“You’re incorrigible,” Bishop mutters. 

To which Randall replies, “I’m in Albany, actually. We both are.” Bishop’s glare, this time, is enough to shut him up. 

When they get to the door of the warehouse, Bishop shoots Randall a look and holds out three fingers. Three, two, one— they push open the door, guns ready. 

A few bare bulbs illuminate a mostly-empty warehouse. Evidently, this is a dropzone rather than a storage or manufacturing facility. Rows of bare shelves block out the other side of the cavernous room, likely obscuring their quarry. 

Then, they hear a frantic scurrying sound from the other side of the room. The man with the briefcase bolts out from one of the corridors and rushes toward the other end of the warehouse. 

“X.S.E.!” Bishop yells. “Freeze!”

The man keeps running, so Bishop and Randall run after him. They chase him through a backdoor in the warehouse and around the corner. Bishop begins gaining on the man as they zigzag through a series of alleys. 

Even from a distance, it clear the man doesn’t seem angry or determined so much as frightened. Like it’s his first drop. Maybe the terrorist organization he’s part of coerced him into this. Maybe they’ve got leverage on him or something, maybe he had to take this job because he didn’t have any other options. 

Thinking about the “maybes” and “what-ifs” doesn’t really help an X.S.E. officer, though. You do the job. You stop the bad guys. You don’t stop to think about what made them bad guys.

Bishop gets within a few feet of the man, and at that point the stranger panics and drops the briefcase. Randall can just barely make out the man sprinting around the corner and disappearing into the tenements, because—

Because when the briefcase hit the ground, it cracked open. And exploded. 

Bishop is doing his best to absorb the explosion, catching the blast as it expands and channeling it into his body. Sickly green light pulses around ground zero, and all the veins on Bishop’s forehead are poking out. He’s swallowing a bomb. 

“Lucas,” Randall calls, running up behind him, but Bishop waves him off rapidly— _ Don’t come any closer _. Randall can only watch, helpless, as Bishop absorbs the last of the explosion. The briefcase sits on the pavement, charred and lifeless, while Bishop staggers and falls. Randall runs to meet him. 

“G-g-go after the c-courier,” Bishop manages through gritted teeth.

“Like hell,” Randall says, kneeling over him, not sure what the hell he’s supposed to do. “Bamf, Bish, that thing was… I don’t even know, man, I’ve never seen a weapon like that.”

“B-b-better me now than a t-t-town full of innocents,” Bishop grunts, sagging against the building behind him. 

“What? No, hey,” Randall says, putting a hand behind his neck. “You’re… you’re gonna be fine.”

“I c-c-can’t contain this,” Bishop admits, feeling whatever was powering that weapon surging through his body, buzzing in his bones and blood. “It’s gonna be ugly. You sh-should… you should get out of here.”

“Ha,” Randall mumbles. “Not happening.” 

“Listen—”

“No, you listen, I’m not going anywhere,” Randall says, his hands on Bishop’s arms like he’s anchoring him down. “You’re gonna be fine, Bish. Just rechannel it.”

“This isn’t your g-grandma’s raygun, Randall, this shit was made to level t-t-towns,” Bishop grunts. “Nowhere safe to put it.” 

“We gotta get you out of the city,” Randall rationalizes. Bishop gives him a look. He can’t make it out of the city limits, not with enough time. “Or, or, maybe you can ground it? Just channel it back into the dirt, yeah?” 

“Randall—”

“No, c’mon, we’re getting out of here,” Randall decides, working on adrenaline and pure, unfiltered panic. He drapes one of Bishop’s arms around his shoulders and stands, hefting the other man’s weight. “You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine,” he insists. 

Randall manages to half-drag, half-carry Bishop back to their car, but Bishop shakes his head violently when Randall tries to get him inside. “No point in the car blowing up, too,” he says. 

Randall’s eyes flash. “You’re not gonna blow up,” he says fiercely, setting Bishop down on the side of the gravel road. Bishop’s eyes are glowing green, and wisps of energy are seeping out, like he’s breaking apart at the seams. 

“Ungh,” Bishop says intelligently, feverish with God-knows-how-many volts of raw energy. “Feels like I swallowed a car battery.” Randall is flitting above him, forgoing his usual chatter. “Randall?”

“I’m here, Lucas.” A hand on his. Everything looks dark. 

Sweat beads on Bishop’s forehead as he stares up at the sky, and then Randall’s worried face blots out the stars. “You’re gonna be okay,” he says, not sounding like he believes it.

“Tell you what,” Bishop says weakly. “If I don’t blow us both to hell… I’ll have dinner with you and your mom.” 

Randall makes a strangled sound, something like a laugh and a shout. “Yeah, you snikting will.”

Bishop refocuses on the stars peeking out from the cloud cover. “If it were… I mean, the best thing to do… normally… would just be to aim up,” he thinks out loud. “But… but goddammit, even then. It nearly killed me going in, I think letting it go is gonna destroy me.”

“Then don’t do it,” Randall says desperately.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Give it to me,” Randall says suddenly, quietly. Bishop stares at him, and Randall grabs his hands. “Lucas. Give it to me.” 

Bishop shakes his head. “I’m an H-bomb, man, you can’t handle this.”

“I’m immune to most types of radiation,” Randall points out. “I can… I can absorb it, make it so it’s not a problem.” 

He’s not wrong. Randall can absorb radiation that would kill other men and change it into a harmless state. Bishop’s own energy manipulation, on a _ good _day, isn’t quite on the level of absorbing a detonated bomb and rechanneling it as harmless light or sound. Maybe if he’d been ready for it, if the explosion hadn’t taken him by surprise. 

But there’s no time for maybes or what-ifs. There’s only time to give Randall a quick nod and squeeze his hand tight and hope this doesn’t kill either of them. 

Randall siphons the excess energy off of Bishop slowly but steadily. And gradually, Bishop starts to feel like himself again. He can see clearly. He can hear beyond the buzzing-thumping in his brain. 

“See?” Randall says. His voice is somewhat distorted, like he’s talking through fan blades. “I told you you were gonna be fine.” 

Randall puts one hand on the ground, and Bishop watches as something like heat waves travel across the asphalt. Beneath Randall’s fingers, the road is scorched. But Randall is okay. Randall is alive— they both are. 

“You’re alright?” Bishop says, one hand reaching up to cup the side of Randall’s face. “We’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Randall laughs, giddy. “Yeah, we’re alright, man.” He leans down and plants a kiss right on Bishop’s cheek. It’s warm— searing even— and whether that’s from the radiation or something else, Bishop isn’t sure.

He imagines that the kiss leaves a mark on him, as clear and plain as the M on his face. It’s just his imagination, though. 

“Cool.” Bishop pats Randall’s hand clumsily. The dust is clearing, and they’re both alive. They can file the field reports later. 

“So dinner,” Randall starts, and Bishop laughs so hard it hurts his ribs. “You said! You said! No take-backs,” Randall insists.

“You’re right.” Bishop pushes himself to a standing position and extends his hand down to Randall. “Dinner. Tomorrow night?” 

Randall takes his hand and stands up, leaning against Bishop’s shoulder a little. The world seems quiet in a way it almost never is. “Yeah,” Randall says, and he tugs Bishop toward their car, hands sliding together. “Yeah, tomorrow night.” 


End file.
